Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

  Martinez was pissed. “Hey, asshole, why didn’t you tell us about this before? I thought we didn’t keep secrets around here.”

  Brockman stepped in. “Put that on me, Joey. Chief called and asked me to keep a lid on it. I made that an order to Sweeney.”

  Sweeney was irritated now. “So why are we tellin’ this guy?”

  “How long they let you slide on the rent in one of those places?” I asked.

  Brockman laughed. “That one belongs to the fuckin’ Scotsman, Taggart. Law requires thirty days’ notice, but that prick wouldn’t give ten minutes’ grace to a crippled Girl Scout.”

  “So if somebody paid for a month, he’d have sixty days before anybody opened it,” I said.

  “To the second,” Brockman answered.

  I couldn’t see anybody thinking they needed more time than that to get lost. The driver had probably been killed just before, so we were looking at a roughly ten-week-old murder.

  “Did you stay the whole time?” I asked Sweeney.

  He nodded. “To the bitter end. They made us move way back while they hooked up the wrecker, which didn’t make much sense if they was worried about fire. And they didn’t take the body out, just rolled the whole shebang into a trailer, piled in all the other crap from the shed, and some guy in a suit drove it away.”

  “Trailer?” said Martinez.

  “Feds have an aversion to eyeballs,” I said. I looked at Sweeney. “Thanks.”

  Sweeney was past his heartburn. “Forget it, man.”

  “Anything else?” asked Brockman.

  “I could use a name.”

  Brockman turned back to Sweeney. “Who was there besides Bender?”

  “The usual. Ralphie and Dickman.”

  “What about Wes?”

  “Yep.”

  Brockman smiled. “Let me make a call.” He walked toward the office.

  “Who’s Wes?” I asked Martinez.

  “Wes Crowe. Chief of Detectives. His kid brother runs the Desert Freeze stand over by the highway, and guess what fire lieutenant owns the land under it.”

  * * * *

  The Crowe place was in the San Bernardino Mountains near Lake Arrowhead, twenty miles south of Victorville. Twenty-one, if you count the extra mile of altitude. That doesn’t sound like much until you’ve driven it. Rumor has it that the only reason people live up there at all is because there’s no way they’re getting on that road a second time. It’s not the cliffs, hairpin turns or missing guardrails that makes them lose their nerve. Not even the unpaved section that periodically slides away. It’s the clowns with accelerators and cell phones. Give me a war zone any day.

  On the way up, the desert turns from brown to dark gray. I know that indicates something underneath, but don’t ask me what. If prospecting had been left to the Black family, the world economy would be based on wood. Del Brockman sat next to me pointing out the local landmarks. Rooster Knob, Slack Jaw Ridge, Punchy’s Gulch. Problem was, it all looked the same. Put me on a body of water, and in few minutes, I can tell you what’s a hundred feet down and over any horizon. The desert? Forget it. I wouldn’t have been any better at leading wagon trains than prospecting.

  I’d hoped a phone call would have been enough, but apparently that wasn’t the way Wes Crowe worked. So my stomach put its arms around itself and hugged while I hand-fought the unfamiliar road and the jerks tailgating me.

  The white, one-story frame house tucked into the Alpine escarpment looked almost new. A brown pickup and a red Volvo sat in the gravel drive. Why people live in a forest in wildfire country escapes me, but since I don’t work for Allstate, it’s none of my business.

  Fifty feet beyond, and a little deeper into the trees, another building in the same style but windowless was set at a right angle to the main house. Across a dirt road opposite it, a half acre of land had been cleared, but the stumps and scattered stacks of firewood remained. In place of the trees was a circle of six forty-foot antennas, anchored with thick cables set into concrete footings. When we parked, I noticed that the towers’ tops were strung together with two loops of wire a few feet apart. Somebody was either expecting ET or heavy into shortwave.

  Maxine Crowe was blonde, petite and pretty and wearing an expensive white sundress and matching heels. She was coming out as we were heading up the walk. Del looked her up and down admiringly. “Max, you look terrific, but we can’t run away tonight. Cheryl’s barbequing ribs.”

  She had a great smile. “Hi, Del. Dinner with the girls.”

  “So some waiter’s about to cut his wrists when you ask for separate checks.”

  “We’ll make it up to him by tipping ten percent.” She grinned. “Wes is over in his playhouse. Tell him I should be back by ten, and there’s ham in the fridge. Best to Cheryl... and her ribs.”

  She got into the Volvo and roared off. Since Del hadn’t introduced us, and she hadn’t asked, I surmised that when business came calling, she stayed clear. Probably smart when your husband’s a cop.

  I’m not sure what I’d conjured up in my mind’s eye, but Wes Crowe wasn’t it. First, he was almost as wide as he was tall. Probably five-eight, 250. And none of it was loose. More like an Olympic weightlifter who can’t find a suit to fit but can bend a rail with his neck. And second, he was Chinese.

  An Asian man with an Occidental woman isn’t common, even in SoCal, where the American melting pot is well ahead of everywhere else. It’s an anomaly there are anecdotal explanations for, but I’m not aware of any empirical data. I do know there’s deep-seated anger among some American-born Asian men who grew up watching the Wrigley Twins but are now invisible at singles bars. On the flip side, white or black men with Asian women is ubiquitous and the source of outright hostility in many Asian families—especially the Japanese. I don’t know what their position is when the genders are reversed, but my guess is it’s not nearly as potent. No surprise.

  Wes was as effervescent as his wife. Big smile, big voice, and a big hug for Del who, after escaping, offered, “Maxine said to tell you that she’ll be spending the night with me. Oh, and there’s ham for dinner.”

  “I love ham. What was the other part?”

  We laughed.

  He shook my hand firmly and grinned. “You’re probably asking yourself, ‘What’s a hot-looking dude like this doing with a blonde when he could be dating Asian chicks?’” I already liked the guy; now I liked him more.

  We sat in some almost comfortable IKEA chairs with cold bottles of Sam Adams, watched over by hundreds of glowing lights from what was easily half a million in radio equipment. Some playhouse.

  “Very impressive,” I said, gesturing.

  “It was this or broads. Equal craving and couldn’t afford both.”

  My eye caught something on one of the shelves. Another jade tiger. But where Lucille’s had been crouching and watching, this one was up on its hind legs, mouth open, in full attack. I was almost certain, though, it was part of the same collection. I stood and walked to it. “Magnificent piece.”

  Wes hesitated just long enough to decide which lie to tell. He came up with, “Supposed to bring luck. Maxine picked it up somewhere. Probably fuckin’ eBay. I’d like to strangle the cocksucker who invented that goddamn thing.”

  I’d estimated Lucille’s at twenty-five grand. In paintings or sculpture, animals in action brought more. A cop’s wife wasn’t cruising the net making those kind of impulse buys. I decided to watch Detective Crowe’s reaction when I tried to pick it up. He didn’t exactly fly out of his chair, but he was almost to me when he realized his mistake. True to form, though, he didn’t give it up. “Sorry,” he said, “it’s just that it’s heavier than it looks.”

  Handling it with both hands, I casually turned it over and, like Lucille’s, found no markings. I said nothing, replaced it and went back to my chair. Wes Crowe seemed relieved and changed the subject. “Del said you’ve got some curiosity about the taxi we found. Why?”

  Since he didn’t take the long wa
y around, I didn’t pull any punches either. “Because Chuck and Lucille were friends of mine, and I think there might be a connection.”

  Wes’s eyes never left mine, confirming he’d been the local cop briefed at the Brando murder scene. Made sense, he was the boss. To firm up that we were working from the same playbook, I added. “That, plus Special Agent in Charge Huston and her pals gave me a stiff case of handcuff burn.”

  He looked amused. “Really? You guilty of something?”

  “Coming out of a Red Roof Inn.”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple of days ago.”

  He thought about that. “So she’s still around. Not surprised. A real piece of work, that one.” He looked at Del. “How’s this for an opening line to a dozen cops? Anybody breathes a word about this, and I’ll have his ass for obstructing a federal investigation.’”

  Del grinned, “And being the shy, retiring guy you are...”

  “I told her she had something green between her teeth.”

  It looked like I’d been SAC Huston’s second comedian in two weeks. “Got a decent laugh from the guys, but sort of hampered the early going. She recovered, though, and managed to insult everybody a couple more times before it was over.” He leaned forward. “So tell me you’re not a reporter.”

  It didn’t seem like a good idea to bullshit him. “I own some media properties, but they keep me as far from the news as possible.”

  “Reason I made you come all the way up here was so I could look at you when I asked that. Got no interest in dealing with that Huston hump again, even if she is full of shit. I noticed how you carry yourself. You’ve had some training. My guess is military.”

  That’s why he was a detective. “Correct, but a long time ago.”

  “Not that long. Okay, fire away.”

  “How’d she find out about the body in the first place?” I asked.

  “Fuckin’ owner. Old Man Taggart. Called the FBI before he called us. When I jacked him up about it, he said the Feds routinely send out memos to storage companies. Showed me one. ‘Be on the lookout for terrorist shit. Don’t touch anything. Just call.’”

  “He thought a taxi looked like terrorism?”

  “Taggart likes being the center of attention. He’d have called them if it’d been a load of dildos.”

  “Is Huston local?”

  “Nah, Victorville’s got no FBI office. There was an 800 hotline on the memo. Probably drove out from LA. She was already there when we showed up.”

  “By herself.”

  “Yeah, I thought that was peculiar. Feds are usually in pairs. Sounds like you got to meet the whole family. I’ll pass.”

  “Somebody said the driver was an Indian.”

  Wes raised an eyebrow. “Who? Smitty the Pechangan? The only thing that clown knows about Indians is that before the tribe started handing out casino checks, he was Irish. The dead guy was Chinese. Yanlin Li.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “What about the one who rented the storage unit?”

  He nodded. “Him too. Taggart just called him a slope, and he had phony ID, but he was on the office security tape.”

  “No chance he was something else? Korean, maybe?”

  Wes Crowe looked at Del like, can you believe this guy? Then he said to me, “I suppose, but asking to pay the fee in Hong Kong dollars sort of argues against it.” He paused. “That, and I recognized him.”

  It looked like I’d earned a spot right next to Smitty. I waited.

  “Maxine and I like to run over to Vegas every now and then. She digs the slots, and I’m all over the buffets.” Wes patted his waistline. “Where else can you get a lobster and martini breakfast for $6.99? There’s this discount electronics place off the Strip. Donnie’s. That’s where I picked up that Yaesu receiver.” He pointed to a rack of black steel boxes. I couldn’t tell one from the other but nodded like I knew. “The guy on the security tape was Donnie Two Knives.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “TV ads. Guy in martial arts gear stands in a parking lot surrounded by flatscreens, computers, all kinds of shit. Couple of big-titted chicks in G-strings hold up a cardboard sign with a price on it. ‘Come to Donnie’s,’ the guy shouts. ‘You no like price . . .’ And out comes a big-ass Rambo knife, and he whacks the board in half, screaming, ‘I cut!’”

  Del grinned wider. “Then the girls hold up a lower number, and Donnie screams even louder. ‘You still no like ...’ And naturally, he’s got a knife in his other hand. Whack! Donnie Two Knives.”

  I shook my head. “A Chinese Crazy Eddie. Go figure.”

  “If you’re in a bar when he comes on, the joint stops dead. My wife says men are such simple creatures. Tits, Toys and Touchdowns. If we could suck our own dicks, civilization would end.”

  Hard to argue with that.

  Wes sat back and took a sip of beer. “We all know Asians do Vegas like it’s around the corner. Charter 747s. Bring the whole village. I figure that’s how Donnie came into the Hong Kong bucks.”

  “And you told this to Huston?”

  “Made her work for it, but yeah. Glad to be rid of the problem—and her.”

  So out of three dead, two were Chinese. But Donnie Two Knives didn’t get Hong Kong currency from a tourist. Nobody travels halfway around the world to buy a TV to ship home when the factory’s up the street. And Crowe knew it too, but I wasn’t a cop, so he was just doing what cops always do to civilians—giving me a little jerk-off. They can’t help it, it’s like breathing.

  I stared at him so he knew I knew. Finally, he shifted his gaze to Del. “You mind moseying over to the house for a bit. Maybe help yourself to some of that ham.”

  Del wasn’t offended. “Fuck the ham, I’m thinkin’ donuts.”

  When we were alone, Wes the Smile disappeared, replaced by Wes the Snarl. “You’re acting like you’re way ahead of the desert hick from Victorville. That true?”

  “Probably not, but if I am, I’ll make sure you get to the party. Chuck and Lucille were a little more than friends. There’s also a detective lying over at UCLA with his throat slit because I told him what happened. You know how it is when people you care about get hurt. You go the extra mile.”

  “Another cop? This is getting more interesting all the time.”

  “I thought maybe because Chuck and you were both law enforcement...”

  I’d struck a nerve. “We got so many LA badges living out here, somebody farts, ten people tell us where it smells. We don’t go looking for more help.”

  Made sense. It’s a fraternity, but there are different handshakes. It was also a good bet that some of the big-city boys Barney-Fifed the locals. He hadn’t pulled the phrase “desert hick” out of thin air.

  His voice got colder. “But where you’re really going with this is did Lucille and I know each other? Two Chinks married to Anglos. Did we ever get together and read a little Mao? Or maybe swapfuck our brains out?”

  I learned a long time ago you’ve got to head off that kind of shit before it puts down roots. “Well, since you’ve got a case of the red ass, why don’t we cover it now?”

  His muscles tensed, and I wondered how many guns he had hidden in the room. But he relaxed. “Sorry. There was a rumor going around a couple of years ago. Right after the Brandos moved here. Upset Maxine pretty bad.”

  “So you were friends.”

  “Not really. Went out to dinner a few times. Nothing that would’ve raised an eyebrow if we hadn’t been . . . mixed. Some people though ...”

  With a British blue-blood father and a Brazilian mother, I knew only too well.

  “Chuck thought it was funny. Lucille didn’t. And neither did Maxine. So we decided it wasn’t worth it. We never made an actual decision. Just moved on. Waved to each other at church, but that was about it.”

  I changed the subject. “Any idea how Mr. Li died?”

  Wes pointed to the back of his head under the skull. “Cerebellum. Somebody jammed an ice pick in there and sti
rred the contents. Guy probably twitched a little, but not for long.” His eyes regained their earlier warmth. “I ain’t as smart as the FBI, which that Huston broad pointed out, but I’m bettin’ Donnie.”

  We both laughed, and most of the tension left. “I’m also bettin’ he was here to do the Brandos—or at least help. But something ... or somebody...got in the way. Screwed up the timetable.” He paused. “No reason to kill people that way unless ...”

  He let it hang, but I knew what he meant. Unless they had something you desperately needed.

  “How’s that fit with your theory?” he asked.